


let’s talk about love (is it anything and everything you hoped for?)

by harryandthestars



Category: Andi Mack (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Confessions, Drugs, Emotional Repression, Inspired by a SZA song lol, Internalized Homophobia, Junior year, Lmao ok i love them i feel like typing in lowercase again tho this is too local like, Love, M/M, Party, Plot Twist, Realization, Sad T.J., Scared T.J., T.J. moved, T.J. never kept in touch and regrets it, Tyrus - Freeform, With a Potential Happy Ending, all the stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 12:50:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17345543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryandthestars/pseuds/harryandthestars
Summary: Because all T.J. wants to do is flee. Flee from this party, from these people, from the drinks and sweaty nudges and overplayed songs...However, the feeling abruptly changes when he spots Cyrus Goodman, the center of his universe in his last year of middle school.Or the one where an emotionally repressed, drunk and high, incomplete T.J. follows his former (and only former, that’s all) crush into a bathroom and remembers why he fell for him in the first place.





	let’s talk about love (is it anything and everything you hoped for?)

**Author's Note:**

> hi, thank you for reading ((:
> 
> hope you enjoy!

T.J. hates this.

This, as in, everything. He glowers at his so-called friends—teammates, more than anything—and barks again, “Just wait ‘til I’m Captain. I’m gonna kick all of you out of the team.”

Johnathan, the cheeriest of them all, and admittedly the only one T.J. actually likes, “Calm down, Kippen. Live a little. It’s _high_ school, after all.”

The innuendo doesn’t go unnoticed by the hormonal boys around him, and amidst some of the annoying chuckling and T.J.’s eye rolls, the door opens. It’s like entering a whole new dimension; the noisy house parties with the fluorescent multicolored lights, and T.J. really does admire the overwhelming amount of life just for a few seconds. But it immediately ends when he enters the damned house.

It’s a routine, the whole thing. The red cups full of beer getting passed around. More laughs as the most reserved guy in the group starts to loosen up. (Well, really, the most reserved guy is actually T.J., so the _second_ -most in this case.) Drake starts playing, loudly and clearly, the music cutting through him. It’s always this fucking feeling. Like he’s in it, but not really. And that’s why he hates these parties. Something in him, deep, deep down is always causing him from being comfortable, from being who he truly is…

Johnathan is the only one who notices T.J. hunching in a corner, his drink untouched and eyes distant. He frowns and puts his hand on his shoulder.

“Kippen, I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low. “We shouldn’t have forced you here. Listen, if this is about Brooke, man, maybe you should let it go, it’s been two months after all—”

“It’s not about Brooke,” T.J. snaps, making it sound like it really is about Brooke. But it’s not, it’s really not. He doesn’t give a fuck about his ex-girlfriend because it never even felt like she was his girlfriend in the first place. Sure, they made out and all that, but T.J.’s sure she enjoyed the movies and study sessions and their lips attached much more than him. Even though it was her who ended it.

 _I don’t even know who you are, and we’ve been going out for half a year,_ he remembers her saying. She phrased it quietly, softly, pitifully. _You need to know who you are first before trying to get with other people, T.J._

That’s not to say he wasn’t sad at first, because he was. Brooke was a good girlfriend, never too prying, attractive, he supposes, and fun enough. He was always with her like she was a mildly interesting movie and once again, he was apart of the relationship but not really. But mostly T.J. was sad at the realness of at all, the realness of how she ended things. _You need to know yourself first._ But he didn’t.

Or maybe he did.

Pushing all those thoughts away, T.J. finishes the whole cup in one gulp, much to the delight of Johnathan. Cheering, he steers him to the shot table. _Oh, well,_ T.J. thinks as he sits down. _We’re all going to die anyway._

Suddenly a crowd gathers. The whole party, it seems, is enamored by the fact a sixteen-year-old boy is about to become drunk out of his wits. They cheer and cheer and cheer. Johnathan grins, leading them on. T.J. sighs, his nerves drumming in anticipation—how can he back out now? He’s become a spectacle again. A thing to simply be observed, just like the way he thinks about the world. And yet, even with everyone around him, he still doesn’t feel truly apart of it, and he’s the fucking person being cheered at. The frustration drives him to take the first shot. Johnathan encourages him to take a drag of something—weed. Holy shit, it’s weed. He’s never smoked it before, not ever, but maybe this is the secret of being Apart Of It All.

The overwhelming feeling of both the tequila and weed nauseates him, and for a few moments, his surroundings don’t register. _What the fuck,_ he thinks, panicking, but then his view of everything is resolved. Still blurry around the edges. He takes another shot, and another, and another. More cheers. After the fourth, he looks around the room. Everything is too much, everything is too much...

Because all T.J. wants to do is flee. Flee from this party, from these people, from the drinks and sweaty nudges and overplayed songs. He tries to look beyond the crowd, but there are too many people, too many fucking people. But everything clears all of a sudden. Everything clears as he spots a brown cardigan and messy brown hair and... _Oh my God, I really am stoned as hell,_ he thinks anxiously, because there is no way that figure is in this room, walking to the other side of the room, frowning slightly.

And all of a sudden, T.J.’s nerves drum because of something else entirely. He tries to get up, fumbling, but he has to be caught by someone, by someone he doesn’t care about, because there is only one thing—person—he is suddenly caring about. _It’s like gravity,_ he remembers some random ass terms from eighth-grade science, of force and Newton’s three laws and he also recalls who tutored him about those things, _it’s like gravity, it’s like gravity, it’s like gravity…_

He walks like he’s on tilts, but he doesn’t care. A crowd of girls is blocking his view, and he’s about to talk, about to tell them to scurry and fuck off, because someone is here, someone really damn important. But he catches his name.

“...Maybe T.J.’s gay.”

“What the hell? No way. He’s so _tough._ ”

“But he hasn’t even looked at Brooke once. Even if they’re exes, have you seen how she looks tonight?”

“Are you sure he’s the gay one, sis?”

T.J. laughs, really laughs, and scoots to them. He senses their alarm, but he feels euphoric; he’s on top of the world. “No, I’m pretty fucking gay.” And he keeps laughing as he walks away, unbeknownst to him and them that they’re the first people he’s ever come out to, to say the words that have been taking life from him since the eighth grade.

He spots him again. Oh my God; it’s like a blind man seeing light for the first time. Oxygen, he realizes, it’s oxygen. He can breathe again. Suddenly the world is his friend.

Cyrus Goodman walks into the bathroom, and T.J. follows. He can recognize him from the back, he realizes, and he blushes. Surprisingly, it’s not crowded. Or maybe it is. The noises outside are maximized, magnified.

His breath hitches. _Cyrus. It’s Cyrus._ How can he talk to Cyrus? The boy who made him realize everything? The boy who made him feel everything, every single emotion? The boy who he left behind, the boy who was the only person he didn’t ever want to leave behind…?

But somehow, miraculously, he turns around, and his wary brown eyes suddenly widen. He’s leaning against the wall, smiling now. The smile still takes T.J.’s breath away. Maybe Cyrus is also the person who takes away his oxygen. He doesn’t mind it happening.

“T.J. Kippen,” Cyrus’ voice is deeper now, more mature, but still the most beautiful thing T.J. has ever heard. He’s shorter than him still, he realizes. T.J. wants to grab ahold of the smaller body and never let go. 

“Why are you here?” is the only thing he can make out. _Why are you here to haunt me, Underdog?_  He knows it’s rude, and he cringes. He wants to take his words back, but Cyrus seems quite undeterred. His smile is still painted on that flawless face, and T.J. almost sobs. He never thought he would see it again.

“My bodily functions called,” he says, gesturing around the bathroom. T.J. realizes there’s pink on his cheeks. He almost sobs again; he never thought he would see that beautiful blush or hear that wit again. “You, on the other hand, do not look like you have a rather full bladder. Why are you here, T.J.?”

“I followed you.” He tries to play it cool now, but he ends up sounding like an ax murderer. Classic T.J. who messes up everything. “I—I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“Yeah,” Cyrus agrees, his voice smaller now. “You never visited Shadyside.”

“I never visited Shadyside,” he parrots because that’s the only thing that he can say. “Can you come out? Let me get you a drink.” _Let me pretend you are just a friend I haven’t seen in so long, and you aren’t making me feel like I’m fourteen again._

He rolls his eyes. T.J. remembers when Cyrus would make him so incredibly irritated, but so incredibly _soft_ at the same time. His eye roll would signal the start of some dumb argument that ended with T.J. making Cyrus laugh, or Cyrus making T.J. laugh. “I don’t drink.”

Of course he doesn’t. Morally upright Cyrus Goodman, only capable of doing good. “I meant something like peach Fanta.”

“My favorite drink,” he says, grinning. “You remember.”

“Of course I remember.” T.J.’s throat tightens. Of course he remembers.

“And yours is Diet Pepsi. I never understood how you liked it.”

“Diet sodas are the best thing since—”

“Basketball, yes,” Cyrus completes, grinning, and suddenly T.J. is only feeling complete, so whole. Cyrus, Cyrus, it has always been him.

“I missed you,” he blurts out. “I still miss you, I always miss you. I—I know you probably don’t, now. It’s been two years, two long years.”

He stares at him. “You never called. Or texted. Or anything. I tried, for so long, to keep in touch.” It’s not an accusation; it’s a statement, a fact. And it’s not filled with malice either; of course it’s not. It’s Cyrus, for crying out loud.

“I’m sorry.” Tears are building up now; he’s sure it’s going to humiliate him later, but he can’t stop it. “I’m so sorry.”

“I just thought you never wanted to talk to me again,” he admits, his gaze wary once more. “And here I am, seeing you again, it really doesn’t seem like you hate my guts.” He offers a flimsy smile that T.J. can’t return. 

T.J. shuts his eyes. “I could never hate you. I hated myself, Cyrus. I still hate myself. I was scared, Cyrus. I was scared of what you made me feel.”

There. It flows out like his tears now. Uncensored. And now he can’t stop. “You’re the only person I’ve ever liked. Loved. And when I moved—I thought I could escape you. The feelings you gave me. God, your smile, your laugh, everything about you—I was so in love with you. I was ashamed and stupid. You made me a better person. You made me who I am. I could never give you anything in return. I messed up. I mess up, in fact. I’m always conflicted, Cy. Just like I was two years ago. But now it’s even worse. It’s like I’m only a witness in things, even if I’m in the middle of it. I don’t know who I am. I never did. But when I was with you, it was clear. And I was even more scared of the clarity.”

It’s eerily quiet. But just as he opens his eyes, he speaks. Quietly. Softly. But not pitifully. “Within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.”

T.J. smiles, actually smiles, in return. “You always knew how to phrase things.”

Cyrus laughs, and his eyes still crinkle when he laughs. “It’s a quote from The Great Gatsby.” 

“I’m in love with you.” It’s the truth, and he says it matter-of-factly. The undeniable truth that he always pushed away. But not tonight. Not anymore.

“You already know who you are, Teej.” _Teej._ “Now accept it so you don’t lose everything.” And T.J. realizes. He’s scared now, more scared than he’s ever been.

“Cyrus, don’t go, please don’t go.” He will beg, he will plead, he cannot feel incomplete again, he wants Cyrus, he always wanted Cyrus…

“I’m only a phone call away.” He strokes his cheek, but the touch is like melting ice. “Haven't I’ve always been there, T.J.? You're the one who wasn't.”

Maybe that’s the case, but when he vanishes, when the only thing T.J. hears is pounding rap, when the only thing T.J. sees is some stray people trying to ask him if he’s okay—the loneliness is too much to bear. He throws up in a urinal, crying, probably, or maybe he’s too weak to even do so. He can’t take it, so his mind vanishes just like Cyrus, and he is immeasurably grateful to the blackness.

* 

“I cannot believe you were so irresponsible.”

That’s what his parents keep telling T.J. I cannot believe. _Why couldn’t they? It was a house party,_ he once would’ve argued. _Everyone did it_. They arrested a lot people; of course they would’ve arrested a stumbling, slurring minor. 

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t argue. He apologizes, though. _Mom, I promise you I will never smoke weed again, or drink so many tequila shots that I hallucinated my middle school crush came to guide me in the right direction._ And because of that fact, he isn’t truly sorry.

They take his phone away. When he comes back to school, he realizes some girl leaked out the fact he’s gay. For some reason, there is no terror or sadness or anger as his basketball team looks at him sideways. He remembers a lot of the feelings he held that night, even though he was so cross-faded. He also remembers this: _“You already know who you are, Teej. Now accept it so you don’t lose everything.”_

And so when Johnathan comes over to him, truly apologetic for a) bringing him to the party that got 15 people arrested, T.J. included and b) somehow not knowing he was well—you know, and that he forced him to hook up with girls, T.J. says nothing but gives him a bear hug and then pats him on the back.

However, when the bell rings after the very, very long day full of too short stares and decent enough people coming over to congratulate him for being so “brave,” T.J. goes back to Johnathan and asks to borrow his phone. Alarmed, he does so.

And T.J. realizes he doesn’t even need to look at the keypad to dial the number. He is not the same T.J. that wouldn’t want him to pick up so he didn’t need to confront him after two years. He is the T.J. that wants to hear his voice and doesn’t feel guilty about it.

Ring. Ring. Ring. And then: “Hello?” 

And dear God, is his real voice better than the hallucination. It’s better than everything that he has ever heard. This is Cyrus, Cyrus who brings the clarity, Cyrus who he is unashamedly and irrevocably in love with.

“Cyrus, this is T.J. Kippen,” he speaks, and T.J. is now in motion with the world and its forces. “I’m so sorry for not keeping in touch, but I think we have a long due talk.”

 

  


**Author's Note:**

> ok hi. so my last tyrus texting fic actually got more than 15 kudos (wow) so i'll write a sequel for that one day. however this idea i couldn't get out of my head. i blame sza and kendrick lol. anyway this is unedited so there's probably a ton of embarrassing grammar mistakes that i'll change along the go.
> 
> thanks for making it this far if you actually had the patience to lol


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